


Sword of the Rightful King

by arithilim



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-20
Updated: 2010-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:34:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arithilim/pseuds/arithilim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About Arthur becoming king and about Merlin who watches over him, and about Excalibur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sword of the Rightful King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feyuca](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=feyuca).



> Thank you to everyone who had a hand in this - [info]dk323 who gave this a look over early on and gave me a much needed confidence boost to keep working ^_^ [info]nyxelestia for the hand-holding, the de-meladramfication of the first scene, the reminders that the enter key is my best friend, and for being awesome. And of course, [info]sparkysluvchild who not only used her Awesome Beta Skillz, but also put up with me XD I love you all!
> 
> Title and some vague ideas from "Sword of the Rightful King" by Jane Yolen.

The horse begins to falter as it plows through the deepening drifts, but he urges it on faster. His cloak snaps behind him, a dark smudge against a world of white. There’s not much time.  
 

The path narrows as it winds deeper into the woods, and he crashes through the branches, heedless even as they snap in his face. This is an errand of urgency, and he must return before his absence is noticed. The snow is deep, so deep now, and he realizes the horse cannot go much further. But no matter, he’s almost reached it. He urges it into a last spurt of speed and bursts through the trees into the clearing.  
 

Jumping down, all normal awkwardness lost in urgency and purpose, he leaves the sweating horse to recover as he pushes his way through the drifts. His eyes flash gold, a thoughtless aside, and suddenly a path appears to the shore and he strides down it. The cold and wet doesn’t even register; he is intent on his goal.  
 

The lake is calm. It isn’t cold enough yet to freeze, and the frigid water instead rests deceptively peacefully, disturbed only slightly by the flakes brushing its surface, floating for a moment with the barest hint of a ripple before they sink down, melting into the depths.  
 

Merlin sees none of this, however, merely raising his hand, eyes gold once more.  
 

Nothing.  
 

And then the mists rise above the lake, swirling as a shadowy figure emerges from them.  
 

He gazes on her. It’s difficult to explain. It is Freya and it isn’t. It’s her form, yes, her figure and her features, but there’s something more, something that makes her less a part of his world and more a part of the Other. The mists creep about her, caressing her ethereal form.  
 

The Lady of the Lake.  
 

He's seen her like this before only once, a final salute to what could have been, and he knows that this being does not belong to his world, even if Freya ever did.  
 

“My lady,” he says, inclining his head.  
 

“Emrys,” she answers, and her voice sings with the sighs of the trees and the power of the land. “You have come for it at last?”  
 

He nods. “It’s time.” His eyes search out hers, and he cannot help but regret. She gives him a sad smile.  
 

_Do not mourn what was never meant to be._

  


She raises a hand, and it appears out of the lake, as beautiful and alien as when he last saw it disappear beneath the surface.  
 

_Excalibur_.  
 

She holds it out to him and he takes it by the hilt, unprepared for the power that courses through him as his fingers wrap around metal.  
 

This. It is right, he knows it, in the way he knows he is Arthur’s, and the way he knew it was time. He knows and he has always known. And yet, this is not for him. The hilt will never feel as right in his palm as it will in the hand of another. The hand of the King. His King.  
 

He looks back up and she has melted away. _It returns to its rightful place at last._ The thought caresses his mind in a final farewell. _As do you._

  


He allows himself a last moment, before he turns away back to his horse, and to Camelot.  
 

To destiny.

* * *

  
Arthur stands tall on the balcony looking out at his people. _His people_. His father lies inside, dying. No hope of recovery, Gaius told him in hushed tones, face grim with the weight of his knowledge. Arthur is now his, and everyone’s, king in practice, and before long he will be their king in name as well.  
 

The responsibility settles heavily on his shoulders as he looks down into their grim faces as he proclaims the rations necessary if they are to survive the winter with the crop failures of the past year. No one will be untouched by this, not even the nobles of the castle. If his people starve, he will starve along with them. They are his, yes, but just as much, he is theirs. He must never forget this.  
 

He turns away in a flurry of red cape, and frowns as he withdraws. Something is missing. It isn’t until he’s arrived back at his chambers that he realizes what. Merlin. Merlin, who has until this moment been constantly by his side through all this mess, is not there.  
 

It’s no big deal, he tells himself. After all, it’s not like Merlin doesn’t have duties and chores, and certainly a life of his own, and maybe Gaius just needed him to do something or whatever, and clearly, there’s nothing much wrong here, so he might as well sit down and do his paperwork.  
 

He can’t, however, completely rid himself of his unease, and he’s completely unproductive, seeming to get constantly sidetracked wondering about the idiot. If Merlin was going to be gone for a long time, he should’ve left word, or informed him or something. Honestly, it was such a poorly done job for one’s servant to disappear. What if he needed something done immediately?  
 

What would possibly take him this long? There’s nothing around the castle that was that dangerous – though, Merlin does seem to have a knack for getting himself into all sorts of improbable trouble…surely nothing happened? Maybe he better just check up on…No, he growls. He is not going to run around after his joke of a manservant. It isn’t like he’s truly worried or anything.  
 

Still when a different servant comes to deliver him supper and Arthur has heard no news, he might be a little snappish, sending the boy away in tears. Immediately feeling a bit guilty and then feeling angrier that he was feeling guilt, he kicks at the table leg. This is all Merlin’s fault.  
 

* * *

  


The ride back from the lake takes longer than Merlin wants.  
 

As he sees the sun setting, he knows he’ll have been missed by now, and tries to urge his horse on faster, but, all in all, it’s a futile effort. The snow is too deep and it’s becoming too hard to do anything but pick his way carefully through the drifts. Everything’s gray and white in the waning light, and it’s better to go slow than lose the path and spend who knows how long wandering in the dark.  
 

Dusk comes and goes, and Merlin sighs with the realization that Arthur will have certainly noticed his absence by now. He’s been hoping to avoid this too. Arthur’s been touchy lately, not that Merlin can completely blame him, with the entire kingdom now depending solely on him, and his father fading a little more every day.  
 

Uther was always such a proud, hard man, and even in his wasting sickness, he is still so proud, but as his face grays with pain and his strength fails – Merlin watches Arthur close down more and more after each visit.  
 

Merlin doesn’t like to leave him alone now. Every moment Arthur spends alone is another one for him to fall into the grim contemplation that has become his new standby without Merlin there to pull him out, and it’s difficult to explain, but every time Merlin watches Arthur’s shoulders hunch under the weight of a kingdom the moment they’re alone, something inside him twists painfully, and all he wants is to make it go away.  
 

So no, he hadn’t wanted this errand to take more than an hour or two. However, the weather seems dead set against him and, really, he’s not comfortable at all trying to relocate an entire storm that stretches miles. Each day, for the past few weeks, the compelling sense that he needed to retrieve the sword has been getting stronger until he felt unable to put it off any longer. So here he is, stuck in the woods while Arthur is probably becoming more and more annoyed with him each second he fails to show up to attend him. The worst thing about it all is that he can’t even tell Arthur what he’s been doing.  
 

He doesn’t know why, but just as he knows it was necessary for him to do this, he realizes that it’s important Arthur doesn’t know about Excalibur just yet. This too is difficult to explain – the way he just sometimes knows things like they’ve been carved into him. He always has: He knew he was special somehow for as long as he could remember, and leaving for Camelot had felt more right than anything before in his life. Most of all, perhaps, is the feeling of rightness as he stands at Arthur’s side (though the gods only know how much he tried to ignore that at first). This knowing isn’t anything new.  
 

It certainly makes things more difficult, now that he’s been delayed. He’ll need to sneak to his room, first, to deposit his tightly-wrapped bundle, which means he’ll have to avoid running into Arthur or any of Arthur’s sycophants. He also needs to think of _something_ to tell Arthur – joy.  
 

At long last he does reach Camelot, and hurries to take his horse to the stable.  
 

Sir Leon runs into him just as he’s crossing to courtyard, canvas-wrapped bundle tucked securely under one arm.  
 

“Merlin!” he calls. “There you are!” He sounds worried and there’s a frown on his face, and for one heart stopping moment Merlin thinks _oh god this is it, something’s happened to Arthur while he’s been off waltzing around the countryside, and he never should’ve left him alone like this, he knows how much of a target Arthur is right now and Arthur, god, what’ll he do if he’s really hurt, and what if he can’t fix this and –_

  


Reality catches up with him as he realizes that all around him people are going about their usual business normally, which certainly wouldn’t be the case if anything was seriously wrong with the prince, and he starts breathing again.  
 

While he’s been having his panic attack, Sir Leon has crossed over to him.  
 

“Thank god I found you,” he exclaims. “The prince is in a bit of a mood today. He threw that new page, wasshisname, Gareth, out of his rooms when he brought him supper. He made him cry and everything.”  
 

Merlin rolls his eyes. Arthur in a snit never changed.  
 

“Thing is, the kitchen maids have taken a liking to young Gareth. They’re planning mutiny now,” he confides. “And you know how they get towards us knights when they’re upset with the prince.”  
 

Merlin shakes his head. He does know. “I’ll see what I can do,” he tells the knight with a heavy sigh. He takes off quickly to drop off his package and then get to the Prince’s chambers, hopefully before Arthur can alienate any more of the castle staff. Sometimes, being Arthur’s manservant requires saving the Prince from himself.  
 

* * *

That winter Merlin watches over Arthur as the Prince steps up into the role he was born for.  
 

Everyone loved Arthur as a Prince, but now Uther is dying and the people need a king. Arthur is young, barely more than a boy in their eyes. The crops failed that autumn and the peasants watch the deepening winter with trepidation. They know already their stores won’t last until spring. Arthur does what he can to distribute food and aid, but he only has so much to work with.  
 

The foreign kings see, in place of a hardened warlord, a young grieving boyking. It is too soon, too soon. They lap at the borders like hungry wolves drawn to a weak lamb. They will not bide their time for long. Already they begin to edge in, bands of mercenaries raiding outlying villages. Arthur sends patrol after patrol out to defend his people, as many knights and soldiers as he can spare. But it is not enough. The mercenaries attack and disappear, and he’s stretching his forces thin as it is. He knows a full-out war is likely approaching, and he must save his troops for that.  
 

His people are dying and he can’t do anything to stop it.  
 

Merlin sees this all, and he worries. Arthur is destined to be a great king, but how can he become that if everything beyond his control seems to turn against him?  
 

He helps in every way he can. He uses his magic to subtly bolster food and supply stores, to speed messengers on their way, to help protect Camelot’s fighters and give them a little extra edge in battle, all with Arthur’s blessing, but he can only do so much – Arthur may be acting ruler, but Uther still lives, and so does his hatred of magic. They cannot afford a panic that they’re under magical attack to spread right now, so all of Merlin’s efforts must, for now, remain undetectable, carefully moderated and hidden.  
 

He helps in other ways too – he watches Arthur carefully, makes sure he’s eating, cajoles him into getting some rest. When he walks in on Arthur asleep over piles of reports from across the kingdom once again, he bites his tongue and doesn’t scold like his twisting stomach tells him to. He just raises Arthur up and floats him over to the bed, setting him down gently. He undoes Arthur’s boots and pulls up the covers over his exhausted form.  
 

He pauses then, looking down at the sleeping prince, and a feeling so fiercely protective washes over him that his breath catches.  
 

Of its own accord, his hand extends down to gently brush Arthur’s fringe off his forehead, and pauses there, resting lightly on Arthur’s head. And Merlin, Merlin _wants_.  
 

Arthur snuffles and shifts, breaking the moment, and Merlin turns away once again, shoving his feelings down.  
 

Arthur is a prince, a future king, and he – he is not.  
 

* * *

_The old king is dead, long live the king._

  


The king dies in the night. Gaius reading the signs, summons Arthur just before, and so he sits, clasping a cold hand as his father passes before him. Arthur is no stranger to death, but this is different. The death he has come to know, that he skirts nearly every day, is the violent death in battle. This, this quiet slipping away – he doesn’t know what to make of it.  
 

He returns blindly to his chambers, a man in a daze. The world is so unreal, the flickering of the candles ethereal as the shadows they cast. He is numb. Dead. His father is dead.  
 

He’s uncomprehendingly contemplating the fireplace, when the door opens. He hears it close and then soft, tentative footsteps approach. It’s Merlin. He knows.  
 

A hand settles on his shoulder and squeezes, and were this any other day, Arthur would never allow it. But his father is dead.  The world is spinning, and that hand is the only thing anchoring him to this world. So he lets it settle, and can’t help but think the gentle touch feels like it belongs.  
 

Merlin doesn’t say anything and for that Arthur is grateful.  
 

Eventually the silence weighs too heavily until he’s smothering in it, and he says, “My father is dead.” It’s a dull statement of fact, emotionless nearly. Merlin’s hand tightens. It sounds so unreal to feel the words roll off his tongue, like someone else is saying them. “My father is dead,” he repeats, almost wonderingly, and it still seems so unreal, like any second now he’ll wake up to his father on the throne once more.  
 

“I know,” Merlin tells him. “I came as soon as I heard.” There’s a pause, and then, quietly, “I’m sorry.”  
 

Arthur laughs harshly, the sound bubbling in his chest. “Sorry? Don’t lie to me Merlin.  You’re not sorry.” He turns abruptly, and stalks away angrily, dislodging his hand. “You’re probably happy. I’m sure your kind is rejoicing, or will be as soon as they hear. This is it, isn’t it? What you’ve all been waiting for? And now you try to tell me you’re sorry, you’re fucking sorry.” He’s being deliberately cruel, part of him realizes, but he wants to lash out, hurt, fight. He’s so angry, he wants to be angry.  
 

But Merlin’s having none of it. “I’m not sorry the man who murdered innocent people is no longer king,” he says calmly, with just a hint of reproach glinting in his eyes. “You’re right – I’d be lying if I said I was. But, I am sorry _your father’s_ dead.”  
 

And like that, all the fight is gone from Arthur, and he’s ashamed. He folds in on himself, like everything that’s been holding him up until now has disappeared. “Merlin,” he whispers, voice breaking, as the grief finally overwhelms him.  
 

Then Merlin is there, arms sliding around to catch and hold him, hands cradling his head down against a warm shoulder as Arthur shakes and shakes. There’s wetness on his face, seeping into the coarse shirt, but Arthur, too busy clutching the fabric, doesn’t even notice. “My father,” he gasps.  
 

And Merlin tightens his arms, holding on fiercely.  
 

He’s not sure how long they stand there, but eventually his shaking recedes, and he sighs out, exhausted. Then warm hands are tugging at him, undressing him as he stands there numbly, and replacing his day clothes with a soft sleep shirt before he is pushed into his bed. He grips Merlin’s hands as the other man starts to move away, and Merlin must understand, because he nods, before reaching down to pull off his own boots and then sliding into bed beside him.  
 

Arthur’s cradled in Merlin’s arms, head pressed to a surprising firm chest, and the thought floats through his mind that this is exactly what he’s tried to avoid for years, but it all seems so unimportant and distant right now, and besides, Merlin is warm and comfortable wrapped around him, and he’s so exhausted, so he just holds on tightly and lets himself have this moment.  
 

Tomorrow he will have to be a king, but tonight, tonight is for him to grieve.

* * *

When Merlin wakes the next day, he wakes alone.  
 

Arthur is already gone, and the bed is cold and empty. Merlin shivers. He didn’t expect anything else, but still, maybe, somewhere lurking in the corner of his mind, he had hoped.  
 

When they finally meet later that day, Arthur shoves the armour he’s stripping off into Merlin’s arms, and Merlin knows. Nothing has changed.

Life moves on, however, and Merlin finds there’s really no time to dwell on it.  
 

There’s Arthur’s crowning to prepare and the future to plan. Winter’s hold is breaking and Camelot’s people have emerged - tired and hungry, yes, but nevertheless still whole.  
 

If Arthur was busy before, now he is run ragged, and Merlin with him. Everyone wants something from the king-to-be. The nobles are streaming into court, attending the funeral, but really, anticipating the coronation.  
 

The official date is set for early Spring, early enough that Camelot will not be kingless for long, yet far enough that there’s a respectful period of mourning for Uther.  
 

It is all politics, and Merlin hates it.  
 

Arthur, the person who should most be allowed to grieve, is in actuality given no time at all. He’s not surprised that Arthur pushes away his grief and focuses on duty – what is more essentially Arthur? No, what upsets him most is that everyone else seems to think this is perfectly okay. They expect Arthur to be functioning normally, to act unaffected despite the fact that his only parent just _died_.  
 

Merlin knows Arthur believes he cannot show weakness, but for others to condone this – it’s just ridiculous.  
 

Arthur’s only a man, after all. No matter what he pretends, Merlin knows. He sees it in the deep, brooding silences. In the abrupt pained looks. In the slumped shoulders and bowed head alone in the evenings.  
 

Uther is sorely missed.

 

* * *

Morgana returns ten days after Uther dies.  
 

As soon as he hears the news, Arthur rushes out of the council meeting he’s holding.  
 

He pauses at the top of the steps when he sees her, looking as fierce and devastating as ever, and yet a stranger. It takes a minute, but then she looks up at him and their gazes lock. There’s a long pause where he wonders if maybe the years are too much to breech, and then suddenly they’re in each other’s arms, clutching the other close.  
 

“Morgana,” he breathes, and she holds tighter in response. “Father,” he starts, breaking off.  
 

“I know,” she soothes softly. “I came as soon as I heard. I wish…” She too trails off. He hears what she does not say – _“I wish I could have said goodbye.” “I wish he was not so stubborn and set in his ways.” “I wish it all could have been different.”_ – and understands. “So do I,” he answers. And for a moment it’s the two of them against the world once more.  
 

They pull back slightly, and she reaches up to almost hesitantly touch his face. “It is good to see you, and to be home.”  
 

“Yes, well. You may find things have changed,” he answers, a bit stiffly.  
 

But she just laughs at him. “So I’ve heard. It seems you'll be in need of a Court Seer. I thought I might do you the favour. Someone has to help Merlin keep you out of trouble.” She smirks at him, and he rolls his eyes, and with that, it’s like she never left.  
 

There’s a commotion behind them and they turn to see Merlin sprinting down the steps. “Morgana!” he cries, before remembering himself. “I mean, m’lady!” Arthur watches with a slightly disapproving scowl as Morgana simply laughs and hugs him.  
 

“I see Arthur hasn’t managed to work you to death yet,” she says, casting a teasing glance sideways at the Prince.  
 

Merlin shakes his head ruefully. “Not for lack of trying. I’ve even been given the roles of Court Sorcerer and Royal Advisor to add to my long list of duties,” he confides. He glances around. “Gwen?”  
 

“She took our horses to the stablehands,” Morgana explains, looking behind her.  
 

As if talking about her summoned her, Gwen appears hurrying toward them. “The mounts are taken care of, my lady,” she tells Morgana before spotting Merlin. “Merlin!” she cries, throwing herself at the gawky warlock, and Arthur is forced to watch yet another round of happy reunions.  
 

Pulling away from Merlin at last, Guinevere turns to him and curtsies. “Your majesty,” she greets.  
 

He inclines his head in acknowledgment. “Guinevere.”  
 

The years have been good to her, and she looks happy, in a way he hadn’t seen for a long while before she left with her mistress and friend. Not since her father’s death, he thinks.  
 

Merlin claps his hands together. “Is anyone hungry?” he asks. “We’ve gotten a new cook since you left, and I must say, he is beyond superb. The meat pastries are delicious.”

 

* * *

  


One spring day, Merlin dresses Arthur carefully. He could be doing this same routine any of the hundreds of times he’s done it before, preparing his master for a tournament, except there is no test of war prowess awaiting outside, just the future of a kingdom.  
 

And if this were any other day, Arthur would be insulting him, teasing him. But this day is not any other day, and today Arthur stands silent. He barely acknowledges he’s being dressed, apart in another world, and something deep in Merlin’s chest twists to see him drifting beyond reach. After today, Arthur will only be further away from him, this he understands.  
 

This day’s costume is different too, a magnificent statement, rich soft under things, the mail skirt and shirt that is polished beyond shiny. Pauldrons of a kingly size are fitted onto his shoulders. It is imposing and glorious all at once, the finery and detail befitting the highest power of a powerful nation, but the practicality and functionality fit for the warrior kingdom it is. It was not so long ago that Camelot was ruled by a warlord and not a king, and it is wise that they do not forget this. Uther’s rule was not so stable that it could erase the memories of constant warfare and bloody coups from the long memories of the people.  
 

Merlin adds the final touch, swirling the enormous red cloak about Arthur’s shoulders and fastening the clasp. He steps back to observe his work.  
 

A shaft of sunlight falling through the window silhouettes Arthur’s figure, all crimson and regal gold. Merlin’s breath catches. No longer is this a dim hope. The future is here.  
 

Merlin’s legs give out and he kneels before his king.  
 

“My king,” he vows.  
 

Arthur extends a hand and raises him to his feet. “Merlin,” he says, hand still clasping Merlin’s, and it sounds like a promise. His other hand flits up, hesitantly, and then reaches out to ever so gently brush along Merlin’s cheek, before it’s gone.  
 

Arthur lets go, and squares his shoulders. “It’s time,” he says simply.  
 

He walks out to face the world, Merlin at his shoulder.  
 

* * *

The coronation is a blur for Arthur when he looks back on it. Full of speeches, and ceremony that has the ring of tradition.  
 

What he remembers is this: Geoffrey settling the crown on his bent head and feeling the weight of responsibility settle on him. Looking up from where he kneels before his throne to see Merlin, standing at his position behind the throne, watching him with such unguarded pride that he feels his heart swell in response, and he cannot help but give his manservant and friend a private grin that is instantly returned. Turning around to face his people. _His_ people. Morgana who is smiling happier than he can ever remember. Gwen watching with tears in her eyes as she claps and cheers.  
 

Then, in the crowd, in the midst of a sea of faces, he sees a man, tall and dark-haired, with weathered skin. Arthur frowns a moment, sure that something is familiar before he realizes. “Lancelot,” he calls, finally recognizing him, even through the changes the hard years have wrought. Lancelot looks up at his name. His eyes widen as he realizes it’s Arthur calling him, and he approaches. The crowd quiets, pulling back to watch.  
 

Lancelot stops in front of Arthur, unsheathing his sword before sinking to his knees before him. “My king,” he says respectfully, offering his sword up hilt first.  
 

Arthur looks at him a long moment, before grasping the sword, and raising his most loyal servant. “Sir Lancelot,” he addresses as he returns the sword, hiding a smirk as he sees his friend’s eyes widen. “Welcome home.”  
 

* * *

With Lancelot’s return, and Morgana and Gwen back, Arthur crowned, and Excalibur waiting, Merlin feels like all the pieces are sliding into place. Destiny is fast approaching.  
 

Yet, destiny is not quite there. They stand on the brink of a new world, but it hasn’t truly begun. They are waiting, but for what, none of them know.  
 

In the early weeks following the coronation, Camelot seems revived. There is a new king on the throne, one that the people have watched grow from a young boy into a beloved prince, and now into a king. They are ready to follow him anywhere.  
 

In the high of his crowning, Arthur begins setting his long-awaited plans into motion. Chief among those is reform of magical policy.  
 

It’s nothing that Merlin didn’t expect precisely – Arthur lifting the ban magic was always sort of a given out there in the hazy future of ‘some day’.  
 

Still, when the day comes that Arthur stands once more on the balcony (in an ironic parallel to his father’s opposite proclamation all those years ago) and decrees that magic is once more legal in Camelot, Merlin can’t believe it.  
 

He’s there out of sight, just inside, waiting on Arthur like a proper manservant, when out of nowhere Arthur springs this on not only Merlin but the entire kingdom as well.  
 

_Of course the bastard hasn’t warned him at all that maybe possibly in the very near future, he won’t have to fear for his life on a day to day basis as a traitor to Camelot_, Merlin thinks dizzily as the implications of what all this means start to hit him. _Of course not. When was ever Arthur a kind, considerate person?_

Arthur finds him standing there after he’s finished his decree and left the stunned people in a whirl of red cloak.  
 

He grins at him, so smug that Merlin knows he planned this all along.  
 

“What, nothing to say, Merlin?” Arthur pokes, all innocence.  
 

Merlin’s mouth opens and closes several times before he finally manages, “You – you bastard! You absolute bastard! How long have you been plotting this? You didn’t say a word! And then you just go, and spring this, out of nowhere…” He shakes his head, words failing him.  
 

Arthur just smirks and steps closer in front of him. “Now Merlin, is that any way to talk to your king?”  
 

Merlin starts to retort, but Arthur holds up a hand to stop him.  
 

“I was also thinking. No one in Camelot really has any true experience of magic anymore, and we can’t have ourselves defenseless." Arthur looks down, as if suddenly nervous.  
 

"I want you to become my Adviser." he says, looking back up at him.  
 

Merlin freezes, taken aback.  
 

"Arthur, what?" he asks when it becomes apparent that yes, this is serious.  
 

Arthur looks him in the eye earnestly. "Be my adviser. On magic, if you like."  
 

Merlin just stares. "But..._What_...I-"  
 

Arthur shakes his head, cutting him off. "You are the only person in this court who really understands magic. Well, except perhaps Gaius," he amends. "But you're the only powerful sorcerer we have. Magic - I don't understand," he says, and Merlin can see how much it costs him to admit this, and frowns, starting to intervene, but Arthur ignores him. "No, it's true. I don't know magic. You do. I need to know how to deal with magical people and to protect my kingdom from magical enemies. I will not make the same mistakes my father did."  
 

"And, I trust you," Arthur says simply, looking Merlin straight in the eye. Merlin's protests die unvoiced, burned to ashes in the light of that raw, unguarded look.  
 

He nods, the words not coming for a long moment. "Yes. I - yes," Merlin says hoarsely.  
 

Arthur nods decisively, and swallows, face betraying his discomfort now that his speech is delivered. "Well, and besides, I'll get to have a decent manservant now," he says, trying to lighten the mood.  
 

That makes Merlin pause. He hasn't even gotten that far in his processing. "Oh. Right."  
 

It's stupid, but he finds the idea leaving a bad taste in his mouth. What will it be like to not be constantly around Arthur, to not have it be his job to take care of him anymore - to have someone _else_ do all that?  
 

Arthur gives him a look. “Now, don’t pretend you like doing my chores. You never stop complaining when I ask you to polish my sword.”  
 

Merlin chokes on the unintentional innuendo, but can’t help but smirk. “Ask? As if! I feel sorry for the next poor bloke who gets to be ordered about by you!”  
 

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Must I always remind you? It’s an honour to serve me, Merlin. An _honour_.”  
 

He looks at Merlin, and finds him grinning widely back, all white teeth and eyes crinkled at the corners, and then suddenly he finds himself leaning in, their faces so close together and- He pulls back abruptly and turns away.

  
The abruptness stuns Merlin for a few seconds. They’d been so close to…to what? Nothing can happen between them, that Arthur is making clear.  
 

* * *

But in reality, the coronation is a bright spot before the dark takes hold.  
 

The spring rains are simply not coming. It’s a drought, and without them, the crops will likely fail again. Peasants are on their last stores already – they will not survive another year of this.  
 

Merlin investigates as much as he can to see if there’s anything he can do. As far as he can tell there’s no evil magic at work here. It’s simply nature’s course and it’s far too widespread for him to just magically fix.  
 

The timing couldn’t be worse.  
 

People begin to whisper of a curse, a sign of the loss of favor with heaven. They question Arthur as king and, as much as Merlin doesn’t want to think about it, Arthur’s legalization of magic hasn’t helped at all.  
 

Uther’s fear took its toll on Camelot’s citizens, and everywhere people distrust magic. No royal decree is simply going to fix that. How are they to know their king isn’t under some curse?  
 

The portends of doom are discussed in hushed voices in streets and taverns, even the corridors of the palace itself, as day after day passes without rain and worse and worse news from the borders.  
 

If Arthur is to become the king he was born to be, the people must believe in him.  
 

How are they to believe?  
 

* * *

“My people hate me,” Arthur says bluntly when he senses Merlin come up behind him. He’s on the wall again, looking out over the town and surrounding lands.  
 

He hears a heavy sigh and watches Merlin lean against the wall from the corner of his eye. This, more than anything, speaks to how much things have changed since his father sickened. A year ago Merlin would have immediately violently protested. Now responsibility weighs heavily on them all - besides, he knew he spoke the truth.  
 

“They don’t hate you,” Merlin says tiredly.  
 

Arthur raises a brow. “Really? Funny how they seem to cower when I pass and stare silently from behind. Funny how they’ve stopped greeting me in the streets.” He tries to be detached, objective about it, but even he can hear the bitterness creeping into his voice. “I’ve heard the gossip going round. They judge my ruling so terrible they believe I’m _cursed_.” He folds his arms and stares out into the distance instead of at Merlin, because maybe if he doesn’t look, he can pretend this isn’t slowly ripping him apart.  
 

He suspects he isn’t doing a very good job when he sees the frustrated look Merlin’s sending him.  
 

“Your people don’t hate you, Arthur,” Merlin tells him. “Things have just been bad lately. It’s hardly your fault the weather’s been contrary or that your father’s death came when border tensions were high. It’s not your fault you haven’t been able to perfectly fix everything. It’d be ridiculous to expect that of you!” his eyes flash at the suggestion.  
 

Arthur gives a half smile –perhaps Merlin hasn’t changed so much after all, but shakes his head. “What kind of king can’t protect his own people?” he demands lowly.  
 

Merlin’s passion seems to leave him then, and says nothing for a long while, and Arthur nearly thinks he’s won this- whatever this is, but then, softly comes, “You can’t always protect everyone.”  
 

Arthur pretends not to hear, and simply bows his head. Merlin doesn’t understand. Merlin can’t understand. A king’s duty is to keep his people safe and his kingdom prosperous. He can’t even feed his own city, let alone defend his borders.  
 

He’s startled out of his thoughts by a less than gentle elbow to the ribs. “Besides, if you wanted to save people, you’d saved me from all those chores,” Merlin teases.  
 

Despite himself, Arthur snorts. “I gave you those chores to save people from your idiocy.”  
 

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Oh a princely sacrifice was it? Having me polish your armour and run after you carrying things.”  
 

“Yes, exactly,” Arthur replies. “It was great trial to endure, but I couldn’t unleash you on the populous.”  
 

Merlin laughs. “See, clearly you are a great protector of a king.”  
 

That sobers Arthur fast, and reminds him of exactly what he’d been thinking before. The smile drops off Merlin’s face as he realizes what he brought up.  
 

“Your people do love you,” Merlin says, deadly serious once more. “They’re just afraid. But they just need to be reminded of why they love you so much.”  
 

Then Merlin is looking at him so desperately earnest that Arthur has no choice but to dip his head in acknowledgment before he pulls away. Maybe, just maybe, as he climbs down those flights of stairs to the ground, a little flame flares up in a corner of his heart and he starts to believe.

 

* * *

Merlin watches Arthur leave, and stands at the wall awhile longer. The people – they mean so much to Arthur, and he feels his heart breaking as he sees their distrust weigh heavily on their king, breaking him slowly at the thing which matters most to him.  
 

They aren’t to blame, Merlin knows. Simply, the people need hope. They need something more than a mere man. They need a sign.  
 

He pauses, mind racing. He thinks of the wrapped metal lying under his bed gathering dust. A slow grin spreads across his face.  
 

Well, a sign he will give them.

* * *

A peasant boy stumbles across it first. He returns from the woods babbling excitedly to his master. The hostler frowns, uncertain, but dismisses it as idle fantasies. Still, he repeats the story to the head cook and his friend in the castle guard. A kitchen maid comes upon it next, gathering flowers. She tells her friends excitedly, gossiping in the storeroom. The whispers spread and it isn’t long before they reach the ears of the council and the king. The Sword in the Stone. Already it has a name.  
 

Who so pulleth me out doth be the rightful king.  
 

What can it mean? They wonder. What shall be done?  
 

At his post on Arthur’s right, Merlin hides a smile.  
 

At dinner, everyone is talking about the sword in the stone. Merlin sees Morgana watching him periodically throughout. She’s covering a smirk. Merlin gulps.  
 

She corners him later, as he’s heading to Arthur’s room. It’s become a bit of a tradition – Merlin might not be Arthur’s manservant anymore, but he still meets him in Arthur’s chambers every evening, to discuss the day, and talk over their plans.  
 

“Merlin,” Morgana greets him pleasantly, stepping out of an alcove in front of him.  
 

“Morgana,” he says, looking for an escape. She’s smirking at him again.  
 

“A sword in a stone?” she asks him, “Really, Merlin?”  
 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” he tries, but then, he’s always been a terrible liar (except maybe about his magic, but only then because he’s had so many years of practice, and really, mortal terror was a great motivator).  
 

She rolls her eyes. “Come now, Merlin. I _know_. Really, did you think I wouldn’t see it?”  
 

Merlin’s forced to admit, she has a point. He sighs.  
 

She laughs. “Don’t worry, I approve. Though perhaps you could’ve chosen something a little more interesting than a _stone_,” she teases.  
 

“I was on a short timeframe, okay?” he complains. “And besides. I think ‘The Sword in the Stone’ has a nice ring to it.”  
 

She laughs some more, eyes sparkling. A smile reluctantly tugs at Merlin’s lips. He gives in and grins.  
 

“Well, don’t let me keep you – I just wanted to tell you I know,” Morgana says. “I’m sure you’ve got business with Arthur.”  
 

Merlin could swear he sees her wiggle her eyebrows, as she walks away.  
 

* * *

Merlin watches as Arthur paces in front of the fire. Back and forth, he wears a trench in the stone.  
 

Finally he pauses to brace himself against the fireplace.  
 

“What am I to make of this?” he asks finally.  
 

“Sorry?” Merlin asks, even though he knows what’s troubling Arthur.  
 

“This-this sword or whatever.” Arthur waves a hand to explain. “How do we know if it’s magic or real or some message from the gods or what? I’m crowned King of Camelot, and now this thing appears, saying it chooses a king. What am I supposed to think?” He sighs frustrated, covering his face with a hand.  
 

Merlin frowns. _Oh_. This was not what he intended. He bites his lip, and hesitantly reaches out to Arthur, fingertips skimming lightly over the leather jerkin. “Arthur, you were meant to be king,” he says. “This – this doesn’t change that. If the one who pulls out this sword is to be king, then you will pull out the sword.”

Arthur looks up at him, frowning. “How are you so sure?” he asks slowly.  
 

Merlin looks him straight in the eye and says, “I know,” with all the conviction and the inevitability he has felt for all these years.  
 

Arthur looks at him for a long moment, searching for something, and Merlin tries to look back as steady and earnestly as possible, wants to make Arthur understand this belief, this feeling that’s been such a part of who he is for as long as he can remember. It seems that maybe Arthur does find some of that, because he nods, once, decisively.

 

* * *

Arthur issues a royal proclamation about the sword in the stone – the name has stuck.  
 

Anyone is to be allowed to try their hand at freeing the sword – Excalibur – from its rocky sheath, from the poorest peasant to the foreign kings.  
 

It is an instrument of God, word spreads among the streets of Camelot, a way of divinely choosing the true king.  
 

Arthur, for his part, agrees to abide by the sword’s decision. Should another man succeed, he will step down peacefully, he vows. But in condition for trying their hand as well, the other kings and warlords must make the same agreement – their lands must be ceded to the victor.  
 

Not all agree – many return home in a rage at the restriction, but more remain. The cunning and the wise realize what an opportunity this is – divine right is a powerful tool. Then there are those that truly believe – should the sword really choose the best king, they will serve him to the best of their ability. There is no doubt the sword’s choice will be exceptional.  
 

* * *

Arthur’s council, however, is none too pleased with his decision.  
 

The older councilors are wary – they still distrust, dislike magic.  
 

“What if this is all a magical trick, one to put a puppet on the throne?” one questions.  
 

Arthur considers him a moment, then nods. “It is something to be wary of, yes,” he acknowledges gravely. “But the finest magicians of the land have examined it and found no ill-intent. Magical sentience, yes, but no malice.”  
 

“And how are we sure they are not a part of this plot? You can’t trust these sorcerers, my lord. They may very well be planning your downfall this very moment,” Lord Gareth argues, carefully avoiding looking at either Merlin or Morgana.  
 

Merlin opens his mouth to protest, but Arthur gives a tiny warning shake of his head. Instead he looks icily at Gareth.  
 

“I hope you’re not implying that Lord Merlin, my personal servant, counciller, and long-time friend, or the Lady Morgana, my dear foster-sister, is a traitor to the crown,” Arthur says evenly, staring the man down.  
 

Gareth gulps and looks down.  
 

Arthur looks away, at each of his doubters in turn. “The mages in question have proven their loyalty beyond any doubt many times over. Those who still doubt them would do well to remember that. Such accusations could be considered very _slanderous_,” he says firmly.  
 

No one wants to meet his eyes.  
 

Morgana speaks up. “My lords, why would the magical community seek to depose Arthur? He is not his father – he bears us no grudge. He has given us freedom and acknowledged us for what we are – people. Why would we wish to harm him,” she says, very reasonably.  
 

Lancelot nods. “The Lady Morgana is right. In my travels, I have met many sorcerers, and I firmly believe that they bear Arthur no ill will. In fact, when I was in the outer woods when word that Arthur was to be crowned came, there was rejoicing in the druid camps.”  
 

“So not the magical peoples, then! This is still madness, my lord!” Lord Geraint bursts out. “A strange stone appears from who knows where by god knows who, and we’re just going to let it choose our king? This is insanity! And when Camelot falls because of this, I want it said that I was against it from the very start!”  
 

Arthur inclines his head. “Consider it noted. But also, consider this: the people’s trust in the crown is failing. If the people do not trust their king, the kingdom will fall. This sword – it’s captured their belief already. If I was to draw the sword, well. I think we can consider rumors of my cursed rule ended.”  
 

The councilors start to protest but Arthur holds up his hand to stop them. “My lords! I know this is a shock, and I know that you are unhappy. But, think over what has been said. This is perhaps the greatest opportunity Camelot has had in a very long time.” With that he stands up, and the others immediately jumps up as protocol demands. “We meet in two days time,” he says finally before he sweeps out, Merlin and Morgana following behind.  
 

* * *

The weeks pass and a day is set at last on which Arthur will try the sword.  
 

Merlin watches Arthur through this time, and it is difficult to explain.  
 

Arthur is proud, confident, strong as ever. And yet, as the appointed day approaches, Merlin is more and more likely to find him pensive on the walls alone.  
 

But the thing is – he expected Arthur to be sad, or hurt, or angry, at the possibility of having his kingdom, his people, the things he would die for, taken away from him so cruelly. He did not expect this quiet, inevitable complacency.  
 

It takes him a long while to understand.  
 

It's not that Arthur doesn't care about losing his kingdom, his people, his _life_.  
 

Arthur is angry, so angry that someone would question his right to rule - he is hurting to think he isn't a good king, hurting as he has been all these months. Merlin sees it, when Arthur thinks no one is watching.  
 

But the thing Merlin's known about Arthur all along is that no matter what, he will do what is right by his people. He will be what they need him to be. Even if that is no longer their king.  
 

And the stone - well. Arthur has been watch things spiral out of his control for so long now. Finally, finally, there is perhaps an end in sight. There is something to _do_.  
 

The stone is a challenge to him, yes. But when has he ever backed down from any challenge?  
 

Merlin sees this all, and thinks yes. Arthur is finally ready to be the king he was born to be.

 

* * *

  
Arthur’s knights are somber as they saddle up to ride out with him for the last time.

They move slowly, weighed down by what is coming. Silence fills the courtyard, broken only by the jingle of buckles being fitted on saddles and the clank of armor as they move.  
 

It’s Sir Leon who finally breaks it.  
 

“This is, this is just not right!” he bursts out finally. “Famine or not, sire, you are our king, no matter what some sword says. And I for one am loyal to you alone, until I die.” He gazes at Arthur fiercely, as if daring him to argue.  
 

Lancelot steps up beside him. “As am I,” he seconds, face determined.  
 

Arthur looks at him, then Leon, and then at each of his other knights in turn. He finds Leon’s same fierce devotion mirrored on theirs.  
 

He sighs. “You honor me with your loyalty, Sir Leon, Sir Lancelot,” he says, and watches the men before him light up with hope.  
 

“But,” he continues. “I have sworn to abide by this trial, and I will keep my word. More, I believe the sword has appeared now for a reason. I am grateful for your trust, but now you must trust me once more.”  
 

He looks around at all the grim, anguished faces watching him intently. “If you truly are loyal to me, you will serve the next king with the same devotion, whether that is me or not,” he says gravely, realizing this may be the most important thing he ever tells them. “No matter what happens, Camelot must not fall into ruin. It does not matter who is king, in light of that.” He looks each of them in the eye, making sure they understand. He will not be responsible for a civil war.  
 

At last he looks back to Leon and Lancelot, who have been quiet for a long moment. Finally, Leon nods, though Arthur can tell it pains him.  
 

Lancelot searches his face for a long moment, and then sighs and nods as well. “As you wish, Sire,” he says. “But know this – you will always be the king of our hearts.”  
 

The others nod, and despite himself, Arthur feels his chest swell with pride. He has, at least, earned the loyalty of these men, and that - that is something.  
 

“Mount up,” he orders crisply, swinging up onto his mare. It is time to greet destiny.  
 

* * *

Arthur rides slowly down the main road of Camelot through the city.  
 

The people line the streets to watch somberly as he passes, knowing this might be the last time Arthur Pendragon is hailed as king.  
 

He’s just reached the outer gates when suddenly a woman breaks free of the crowd and runs toward him. His knights instantly move to protect him, but Arthur, studying her, holds up his hand to stop them. The crowd becomes even more deadly silent to watch.  
 

The woman comes closer and it is seen she is older, starting to bend with age. She stops beside Arthur’s horse and studies his face for a long moment, before nodding.  
 

“You will always be our king, Arthur Pendragon,” she says gravely, looking straight into his eyes, then kneels to touch the ground below him before straightening and moving back some.  
 

“Arthur Pendragon, King!” someone in the crowd cries. Then another takes it up and then another, and soon the entire populace of the city is shouting his name. It spreads like wildfire, and as the people chant his name, Arthur watches as they seem to come alive. It’s hard to define, but the people stand straighter, taller, with eyes clear once more.  
 

It has taken losing their king for them to remember their pride.

 

 

* * *

  
Merlin watches as Arthur’s hand closes around the sword.

It’s stupid – there’s no reason for him to be nervous. He set this whole thing up after all, and he’ll make sure Arthur is able to pull the bloody thing free. Yet he can’t stop fidgeting where he stands, even though Morgana’s sending him warning looks, and his palms are sweaty and his eyes are glued on Arthur with the rest of the crowd.  
 

He’s just as caught in the anticipation as everyone else, when Arthur locks eyes with him.  
 

But then Arthur pulls, and the sword slides free without even a word form Merlin and Arthur’s holding Excalibur aloft. It catches the sun, gleaming golden, and Arthur, too, is awash with gold light, and someone shouts from the crowd, “All hail, Arthur Pendragon, King!” and the entire mass of people - peasants to kings - sink to their knees.  
 

&gt;Merlin goes down too, feeling Arthur's eyes still on him. He may have started this, but Excalibur ended it.  
 

This is the moment he’s been waiting for.

 

* * *

  


The return to the city – Arthur can’t even explain it.  
 

Every where people are shouting his name, wishing him long life, pledging him their allegiance. It's heady, and brilliant, and really he can't believe this is all happening. His kingdom - it's still his. He has been chosen above all others, and he has proved himself worthy.

 

But, he realizes, he could not have done this alone. He looks to Morgana, laughing on his left, Gwen, smiling as she walks along beside her lady's horse. He finds Lancelot, staring at Gwen fixedly, Leon who shoots him a smug look when he notices him watching.  
 

And Merlin. Except Merlin is nowhere to be found.  
 

Arthur searches the crowed, with increasing desperation. He needs to see Merlin right now. He is happy, so happy. This is his greatest victory. But, he comes to the realization, it means nothing if Merlin isn’t there to share it with.  
 

As soon as he can, he slips away from everyone. It isn't easy - he is the man of the hour - but he catches Gwen's eyes, and she must be able to read something of what he so desperately wants, because she abruptly starts a big commotion nearby that draws everyone's attention, and he is able to leave unnoticed, except by Morgana, who he sure he sees giving him a knowing smirk as he walks out.  
 

He doesn't really know where he's going - where would Merlin be? - but when his feet lead him to his old chambers, now unused, he knows it's the right answer.  
 

He pushes open the door, and sure enough, there's Merlin, leaning on the window sill that was Arthur's favorite thinking spot for years.  
 

He walks quietly forward, his courage faltering now that he's actually here.  
 

Merlin's voice comes wonderingly. "It seems so long since these were your rooms and I was your manservant, but it hasn't even been a year," he marvels.  
 

Arthur swallows, not sure what to say.  
 

Merlin turns around and grins at him. "Congratulations, my king." He puts his usual teasing emphasis on the words. "I told you you'd pull the sword."  
 

And Arthur just looks at him, at his ridiculous ears, and his wide grin and his damned cheekbones. He knows what he wants now. And today, anything is possible.  
 

He squares his shoulders, takes the three steps forward, and kisses Merlin firmly on the mouth.  
 

Merlin is frozen against him for a long moment, and in that moment, Arthur knows what it truly feels like to die.  
 

But then Merlin’s hands come up around him, to fist his shirt and tangle in his hair, and when his mouth opens under Arthur’s, it’s like the glorious rising of the sun.  
 

_Yes. This._


End file.
